


Jirafa en Llamas

by We_live_in_a_Society



Series: The Surrealities [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Character Study, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Giraffes, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Inspired by Art, Mental Instability, Older Man/Younger Woman, One Shot, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Original Character(s), Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, Wordcount: 5.000-15.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000, Wordcount: Under 10.000, Wordcount: Under 100.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23115835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/We_live_in_a_Society/pseuds/We_live_in_a_Society
Summary: "Sometimes I feel like there’s some beauty in sadness."
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: The Surrealities [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660720
Kudos: 2





	Jirafa en Llamas

The first thing that can be said about her is that she lives in a motel room. Maybe not quite literally, at least in terms of law, but at the same time quite literally. It is like the never-ending paradox that is our lives, it being the inherent part of it. She is not, by any terms, registered there as a permanent dweller, she only lives there, partly legally, partly illegally, leaning more to the second one, which even seems to fit in there a bit more.

For some reasons the dusty motel was named “The Burning Giraffe” – the name almost as absurd as the owner himself and the matching hideous neon sign standing by the road as if inviting the guests to join its grotesque parade of sorrow and filth.

(Or is filth and sorrow a better order?)

Cutting to the chase here, she lives in a motel room for her own reasons. Anytime someone asks her, why she lives in a motel room, she never answers, avoiding the question, pretending as if it was never asked, as if it never existed at all.

The aforementioned motel room has an incredibly simple design in the face of its meaningful function. One double bed surrounded by a few other pieces of furniture and the windows always covered by the curtains, each stain on their surface creating a picture that has been marked inside her head. Sometimes she gets the impression that this particular image is going to stay with her forever, even if she loses her memory, this one will remain on its spot, hunting her in that possible clueless state.

Because we never forget what is truly important.

Aside from the motel room, there is also another place where she keeps coming back for her own reasons. Except this place is nonexistent. Maybe not quite literally, but at the same time quite literally since the building probably still stands there on its own, but its previous inhabitant is missing and that is for sure. 

Maybe that is also for the better.

* * *

The first thing that can be said about him is that he was, and probably still is, but talking about him in present tense will not do any good, trouble.

He is trouble.

Or more specifically, he is the personification of every wanting, every craving that hunts women during their sleepless nights, the thirst that keeps coming back and forth no matter how far away we push it. It seems like she has been trying to push it away for the past four years, but she cannot as long as she will not satisfy her own cravings.

And she will not, for obvious reasons.

Their first meeting was rather awkward, and yet it was all it took for him to make her his. It all started when he moved to the adjacent house, soon after she had turned seventeen, and her father pushed her into visiting him to offer some help. Oh, how silly his decision was, but he came to realization when the damage was already done, per usual. 

She still remembers the first few words he greeted her with, and she is most likely to remember them for the rest of her life.

“You know what?” He asked with a smug smirk crossing his face, when she faced him in the doorway. “I knew you would come.”

Tammy always fancied this man too, but she fancied everyone who was above average, so she was not the best source of objective advice, and yet she was the one that pushed her into making a move on him. 

As if it was that complicated.

Truth to be told, he is that kind of man that flirts with almost every woman he meets, knowing exactly how to approach them to get what he wants, or simply in search of fun. What he wanted back then was to fuck her, and he always gets what he wants.

Obviously, she did not tell him that she was inexperienced, not a virgin, but still inexperienced, partly because she was embarrassed to admit it and partly because he never asked her. Instead she let him play the cards as he wished – she let him dance around her for almost a year, until she could not take it anymore, and asked him directly.

She still remembers those few words he purred into her ear, and she is most likely to remember them for the rest of her life.

“Good you’re legal now, Peaches. I certainly don’t need more trouble,” was what he had said to her that evening before he showed her panties aside and slid home.

This is what kind of man he is, that kind of man who always gets what he wants despite the circumstances. 

And screwing her was one of many things he wanted back then.

* * *

The speaker’s voice is deep, which makes it sound soothing in her ears, rocking her gently into consciousness like her grandmother’s glider back in her childhood years. At her current sleepy state she cannot distinguish any of the spoken words, but the tone sounds disturbingly familiar, which forces her eyes open.

At first everything appears to be normal, the dimly lighted room greeting her with its sight just like every morning, but when her eyes dart to the right, she notices a figure sitting on an armchair. She freezes, unable to move, unable to say anything, and simply stares at the intruder, chest heaving heavily.

“Your hiding spot is kinda lame, Peaches,” he teases, smirk audible in his voice, and this is when the realization hits her.

Leslie has paid her an unexpected visit.

At first she wants to jump into his lap, she wants to wrap her arms around his neck, she wants to kiss him, show him how much she missed him. Then she thinks she should slap him, wipe the smugness away from his handsome face, and throw him away, not even bothering about the cause of his sudden presence. Who does he think he is? Someone who can appear in her room out of thin air after being told specifically not to contact her ever again?

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “I told you that I don’t want to see you, like ever again.”

“The rules are meant to be broken,” he answers her, smug as ever. “Isn’t it what they say?”

“Don’t fuck with me.”

“Oh, I wish,” he jokes, his pearly teeth coming to view. “But you were the one who left me, which was something new to me. At least comparing to all the previous relationships I had with women. You know, it really took an unusual shitload of effort to find you, since you had the nerve to stay in a motel room a mile away from the house.”

“Leslie, I-”

If she was being honest with herself, she would admit she missed him, but she prefers lying to herself – easier for the better, right? In fact he has not changed much, if even at all, since their last meeting, which is not necessary found to be helpful in her situation.

“No, no, don’t bother yourself, it’s fine. I did like the challenge,” he huffs, his pupils blown with rage almost swallowing the steel color.

“I’m sorry, Leslie, I-” She practically whispers, her voice surprisingly small even in her own notion, trying not to think about how many steps would it take for him to reach her,

(and how much she wants him to reach her).

“Go on, Peaches, I want to hear every dirty detail,” he encourages her, his tone surprisingly sedate considering their current situation, but underneath the calm attire, he is like the boiling contents of a pot – all you have to do is to lift up a lid. “You run away from me because…?”

He lifts his left eyebrow in a well-known, nearly signature gesture, waiting for her to finish the statement.

“Because I was dealing with some personal issues and I needed to cool down, alone.”

“What issues were you dealing with? Talk to me, Peaches.” His gaze brushes over the other armchair, clearly a sign for her to sit there instead of lurking in the shadows.

“Fine,” she agrees, pretty much aware of the fact that Rejection and Leslie cannot be in the same boat for too long, so she gets up, half consciously, to take a seat on the opposite armchair. “I’ll talk to you.”

“Seems like we’ve come to our senses, huh?” He grins, pleased with her agreement.

“But it’ll be a long talk, so how about we dive into it tomorrow?” She offers, shifting uneasily in her seat. In one hand she wants him, or maybe just needs him, to go, but in other hand her body craves for his touch, nipples already poking the thin material of her oversized T-shirt.

“Fucking fine, Peaches,” He agrees, carelessly and unexpectedly so, as his eyes flick to her figure, now sitting beside him. 

“You haven’t changed for the slightest bit, Hazel,” he states, the use of her name makes her gasp in shock. He rarely calls her by the actual name, usually stands by ‘Peaches’ or some other pet name, but at the same time he seems perfectly aware of how to use it to get her attention. “You’re still the same sugary-sweet treat just waiting for me to be devoured, aren’t you?”

“You tell me,” she teases, smiling at him in a way she knows will get him going. Maybe if she distracts him and then cuts the topic short, he will leave it aside, at least for now,

(since temporary things seems to work better for her.)

Truth to be told Leslie has ruined all the other men for her. He is neither her first one, nor the last, but surely the only one who really made her feel something, whatever that something was. Either way she cannot deny she has missed that something every single lonely day, every single lonely night, and all the places in between.

“Sure I will, Peaches,” he smirks smugly, patting his knee afterwards, clearly motioning her to take a seat there. “C’mon, sit down.”

“What if I won’t?” She asks, leaning on the table with her weight braced on her elbows, giving him a perfect look at her cleavage. It has been quite obvious, since the beginning, that he has a thing for her breasts.

“Obviously, I don’t take it as an option.”

“You should,” she replies, somehow managing to get herself together without jumping to his bones this time. “Because this is exactly what’s happening.”

Before he gets a chance to respond, she already makes her way to the bed, getting under the warm covers again, turning her back to him.

“You know, in fact the armchair is pretty comfortable,” she yawns, snuggling further into the warm covers.

“Yeah, whatever,” he huffs, clearly annoyed because of her not-so-gently turning him down.

“Sleep well, Leslie,” she replies sweetly, such a rough contrast to the unpleasant tone he uses on her, and to the fact he decides to ignore the given answer.

* * *

Something woke her up. She has no idea what it was, but it was definitely something, something sinister, the chilly blow proves it well enough. Cautiously she looks around, noticing Leslie still sitting on the armchair, his head dangling loosely to the side. The blinding neon light illuminates his face, giving her the odd impression as if he was coming from other dimension, napping on the motel armchair as he is stopping by. While sleeping, he appears as younger for her, his features relaxed, mouth slightly agape, loose hair strands falling down his face, clearly not a fit for a man in his early thirties. 

She gets up from the bed, wincing as her foot comes to contact with a small, sharpie piece lying there. She picks up the item, moving it around her fingers a couple of times, examining its surface, noticing a small chain attached to it.

(The Burning Giraffe comes out of bushes and watches the tall man succumb.)

Despite the dim light the giraffe engraving on the bullet-like shape pokes her eyes – the revelation that makes her sick. What is it doing here? It is supposed to be gone a long time ago.

(The drawer is empty but he keeps the offering in his hand.) 

She sits, glued to the spot, her limp hand releasing the metallic object, the soft clank barely heard by her. Her senses are suppressed as if she was swimming underwater, with her vision blurry, with her hearing dull, she feels helpless.

(“Peaches?”)

The water is slowly pouring over the floor, splashing her bare feet, the level rising unstoppably. She lets out a shuddering exhale as the liquid tickles her bare calves, gradually making its way up, wetting the coarse sheets.

(“HAZEL?!”) 

The scream tears her delusion apart, water splashing its way back to a thin gap between the cheap door and dry floor, all remains of it soon soaking into the ground.  
As soon as her eyes open, she sees him, seated beside her, his face marked with the frown of confusion, hand firmly grasping her shoulder. She looks into his eyes for a few seconds, before she desperately throws herself at him, her body trembling as her nails dig into his arms hard enough to bruise the flesh.

Despite the slight stink it causes, he shushes her, pulling her up to climb upon his lap. “Everything’s fine. We’re fine. You’re fine.”

She sobs softly, her cheek resting in the crook of his neck, voice muffled as she speaks. “No Leslie, we’re not. It- it’s there and I don’t know how. I-”

“Just try to relax and tell me what happened,” he murmurs into her hair, his hand cradling the side of her neck.

“I buried it, I buried the necklace. You know, I dug it in the garden, and it wasn’t supposed to come back, it was never supposed to come back, but it did anyway,” she explains, shuddering in his grip, as he strokes her hair mindlessly, the pinkish strands slipping past his fingers. He thinks the best solution will be to simply let her talk it through.

“What necklace?” He asks gently, trying not to scare her away again. Truth to be told, he played the cards wrong before and he is not going to make the same mistake again.

“The giraffe one, it’s on the floor,” she answers, taking another shuddering exhale, before she resumes. “I never really told you this, but it belonged to my mother, and my mother-”

“There’s no necklace on the floor,” he interrupts her mindlessly and as soon as the words come out of his mouth, she relaxes in his grip. Whatever it is that is bothering her, he is pretty sure, considering her current on-the-edge-of-the-cliff state, that she is not ready to go through it all right now.

“Can we talk about it later?” She asks quietly, and he simply nods in agreement, much to her own, long-awaited relief.

“Try not to think about it,” he adds after a brief moment, scratching the back his neck with his free hand, before it settles on her waist again. “There’s a long way ahead of us, metaphorically not literally, and I think you should get some sleep.”

“Okay,” she nods barely so, looking up at him with her pouty eyes in a silent plead.

“Stop looking at me like this,” he flashes her one of his brief smirks. “I was going to lie down with you anyway.”

She smiles back at him, glad because of how things have played out, as she watches him strip from the corner of her eye, not intending to stare much, or at least not intending to get caught staring. Meanwhile he gets rid of the unnecessary pieces of clothing, although the underwear stays on as if it was supposed to resemble his poor attempts to maintain at least the last bits of decency.

As soon as his gaze lands at her, she turns on her side, facing the wall, clearly avoiding the eye contact. He smirks to himself as he lies down beside her, slipping underneath the shared covers, his left arm wrapping loosely around her waist, her body instinctively snuggling closer to his. She would be lying, if she said it does not feel nice after such a long time apart from him.

“Night, Peaches,” he murmurs into her hair, the warmth of his breath makes her shiver as it tickles her neck. She only manages to give him a muffled response, before her eyelids finally fall shut.

Although she is fast asleep beside him, clearly exhausted after the hysterics, he cannot help but wonder – what the fuck was she even talking about?

* * *

He wakes up first, his hard-on painfully reminding of its existence, the pressure applied by Hazel’s bottom not necessary helpful in this case. He groans in frustration, his hips shifting uneasily as he tries to scoot away from her, but this only causes her to snuggle further into him, searching for the missing warmth.  
(decency)

Considering it for a few more seconds, in the end he lets his cravings get the best of him as his hand slips underneath the soft cotton of her t-shirt, barely grazing her flat stomach. The ticklish stroke makes her shiver slightly, then moan softly as his hand covers the warm flesh, squeezing gently. 

Truth to be told, he has always fancied her breasts. Despite her flawless hourglass figure and chaste whiskey colored eyes, which he has also considered much attractive ever since, her breasts were the feature that drew his attention in the first place. Even though they seem a little bit disproportionate comparing to her relatively short stature, he has always found their gentle sway appealing.

She twitches in his grip as he squeezes again, this time rougher, his blunt nail scrapping over the hardening bud in a teasing manner. Her hips buck in search for some friction as her eyes finally open, gaze landing on the dirty, whitish wall by the bed. 

“Good morning,” he rasps into her ear, the gravelly voice sends a delicious shiver down her spine. “Slept well?”

She hums softly in response, more focused on the gentle caress of his hand than the words coming out of his mouth, the feeling of his hardness poking her lower back only adding up to the distraction. 

She should have expected something like this from Leslie.

“I want you to roll over for me,” he purrs again, hand grasping her full hip, encouraging her to accomplish the task. “I ain’t gonna repeat myself.” 

Without a word, as per his request, she scoots over, letting him pull her up, until she lies back comfortably, pressed against his chest. In one fluid motion, he pushes the sheets aside, exposing their bodies to the chilly air, her skin rising with goosebumps immediately.

Before he gets a chance to ask, she takes off her t-shirt, exposing her back to him. She shivers when his fingers glide down the bare skin, stopping once they settle on her hips, pulling her back to his chest. Her scent hits his nostrils, the sweet fruity smell licking over the nerves, oh so innocently, as if the innocence itself was speaking to the kinkiest part of his brain. 

Maybe it is.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” He asks, squeezing her now bare breast, the pressure unfamiliar after those few months without him. “Me touching you like this?”

She nods in response, her eyes closing as she relishes in the sensation, but her answer obviously does not turn out to be enough for him. He shakes his head in disapproval, tongue clicking over the roof of his mouth a couple of times to show her how deeply disappointed he is.

“Speak when you are spoken to.”

“Yes,” she gasps breathlessly, her back arching, as she unconsciously bucks her hips a couple of times. “I missed you touching me like this.”

This time he gives her a hum of approval, rewarding her with a gentle brush on her clothed folds along with a quick press on her swollen clit that leaves her trembling for a few following seconds.

“Now be a good girl and tell me,” he continues, teeth nibbling at her earlobe in a teasing manner. “Were you thinking about me? Were you picturing me on top of you instead of them? Were you getting off on this, on fantasizing I was the one doing all those things, huh?”

“I was,” she moans breathlessly, her head lulling to the side – an opportunity for him to nip at the tender skin there, rather harshly, tongue soon following the trace of his teeth. His thumb hooks in the elastic of her panties, tugging at the band teasingly – a sign for her to lift her hips and get rid of the unwanted undergarment.

“Very well,” he praises, hot breath fanning over the skin of her neck. “Now how about I give you a little reward for being such a good girl for me, huh?”

“Yes please,” she agrees instantly, and Leslie – being the man of his word – is quick to return the caress. He parts her swollen folds, the lewd, wet sound makes her blush for the slightest and him hum contently as he rubs the tingling nub, putting enough pressure to have her wriggling on the bed. He is well aware of how easily he could make her orgasm from this alone, and maybe, just maybe, this is exactly how she is going to have it.

She coos softly as his fingers slide south, gently massaging her as he goes, the tip of it slipping past her entrance far enough for her to feel it but not enough to relieve the blossoming ache. He smirks as her hips push up, eager to swallow the whole digit, but instead of letting Hazel have it her way, he removes the hand from in between her legs, the pads of his fingers quick to brush over her erect nipples. She whines in response, fighting the urge to rub her thighs together, knowing very well that Leslie will not approve it.

“How about you fuck your fingers nice and hard for me, and then maybe I’ll let you suck me off, huh?” He asks and this is all it takes for her to snap. No, masturbation is the last thing she is going to perform when she has him by her side.

“No,” she refuses, pretty much aware of the fact that her denial is not the smartest way to achieve her goal, but all she wants is to test his limits and see how hard she can push him. “I think you need to cum just as much as I do. Don’t even try to deny it, I can feel your hard-on pocking my back. You want to end up with blue balls? Then be my guest, but I ain’t playing your game.”

“Cute,” he murmurs into her hair, smug as ever as if her speech was nothing to him, but truth to be told, he is just trying to rail her up, and the fact that she has decided to play it stubborn only makes the whole situation even more exciting.

In his whole thirty one years of life Leslie has had many women. Some were younger, practically out of high school, some at the age of his mother, mainly the ones stuck in their boring marriages, wanting, willing to make a change, hungry for something they had been deprived of for such a long time. And who was he to deny them that? 

However, he has always preferred the younger ones. They are more giving, willing to experience more and more as if their hunger was never meant to be satisfied. He loves how responsive they can be, how they are willing to lean into anything he says just to please him, begging him to return the favor.

Hazel is by now his personal favorite, partly because of the aforementioned looks, but also due to how much he affects her. He has never experienced this kind of connection with anyone, how little it takes for him to make her surrender each time, and yet there is a challenge behind all of these – the dignity she struggles to maintain – the perfect combination of effortless and elaborate.

But he is not going to give in that easily.

He pushes her from the space between his legs, and gets up, leaving her cold and frustrated on the bed. With an angry huff, she follows his trace, her breasts jiggling slightly due to the rapid movement.

There are no words that are accurate enough to describe how much she hates her breasts right now. 

“You’re just an asshole, Leslie,” she huffs, crossing her arms over her chest.

“That,” he takes a single step towards her, “is,” another one, “right.”

He stands so close to her that she can feel the heat radiating from his body, yet not enough for any physical contact. He looks down at her as if he was judging her, the smug smirk never leaving his face.

“Get on your fucking knees and maybe I’ll play it nice for you,” he orders, his voice dangerously low, leaving her no choice but to obey.

With a heavy sigh, she kneels in front of him, the rough carpet digging into her skin painfully, as she sits on her heals. She feels the wetness smearing over the exposed skin, her pussy throbbing unpleasantly as her whole body aches for release. 

He is acting out, obviously, still irritated because of her leaving him alone a couple of months back. He wants to push her towards the edge, let her look down on the crushing waves, holding her by the hair all through, until she literally begs him to stop, until she admits it is all her fault.

And yet she kind of wants to do this, because she still feels like she owes him something.

Without drawing this any further, she tugs his underwear down, the hard length almost hitting her face in process, as she backs away slightly. However, he is quick to pull her back, clearly not in a mood for any teasing, his dick twitching as her lips wrap around the tip, sucking softly. He hums pleasantly as she gradually takes more of him into her mouth, tongue stroking the underside of his length, just how he likes it. 

His breath hitches when she envelops the rest with her hand, squeezing at the base hard enough to actually make him whine – a little payback for his earlier malicious acts. He is just about to say something, but all the mocking comments fly out of the window as soon as she starts bobbing her head, the rhythm matching the one set by her hand. 

He groans when the tip hits the back of her throat, the wet warmth enveloping him nicely, the rhythmical pulsing of her flesh almost driving him towards the edge. Obviously he is not intending to cum until he is buried balls deep inside her since it would be inept and embarrassing to say the least.

“Okay, that’s enough,” he taps her chin lightly, and she reluctantly lets him go, his pupils blown with lust as he grazes down at her kneeling form.

(She has never looked better.)

“Get up,” he orders, hands coming up to grasp her hips and push her towards the bed, until she falls onto the mattress with her weight braced on her hands. “On your knees.” 

Truth to be told, he is so done with all of the teasing, delaying the main event just to rail her up, and all he wants in this specific moment is to simply feel how she milks him dry.

Before she gets a chance to question any of his actions, he kneels behind her, pushing her thighs apart for a little bit, just enough for him to fit in there. He groans softly as the wetness coats his length, and he instinctively bucks against her, hard enough to make the girl whine, the need to have him inside her dulling any other cravings.

Concurrently with him, she takes a jerky inhale as he slides in with one rough thrust that is enough to take her breath away, even if for a brief moment. She mewls softly – a contrast to his throaty groan – due to the dull pain the stretch causes, the pain she has almost forgotten during her alone time. 

It is not long enough, probably just a couple more seconds, before his hands take a steady grip on her flesh and his hips snap swiftly, the unexpected force of it causing her to lose the poor balance she struggled to maintain. She falls on her forearms with the side of her face smashed against the mattress, although the new angle appears to be more fulfilling, which actually means her face is willing to make the sacrifice.

Suddenly, he grips her by the shoulder, pulling her dainty body straight up again, forcing Hazel to support the weight on her hands. As soon as she manages to do so, he latches at her neck, biting hard enough to make her squeal quietly, hard enough to leave a small, tender bruise that is meant to remind her how little it took him to have her in this particular position.

“Look up,” he practically groans into her ear, the simple command turns out to be the only sensible thing he manages to come up with. As per his request, she tears her gaze from the spot on the sheets only to face the sight of both of them in the standing mirror.

She gasps in shock, her cheeks staining red as she becomes aware of the sight in front of her. He only smirks in response, almost making her genuinely want to wipe the smugness away from his face. 

Oh hello, he thinks, smug as ever, there is that kind of reaction he has been trying to gain from her. It has always surprised him that despite the fact they had sex multiple times before, he still manages to make her blush, even in the most mundane, vanilla moments, not that this one can be classified as such.

Although he loves to talk in general, he does not say anything this time. He only stares at her through the mirror and so does she, her gaze surprisingly intense considering the fact that she is fighting the urge to look away. Without tearing his gaze apart, he reaches between her legs, nimble fingers quick to circle the swollen nub, wanting, willing to push her over the edge. She moans his name, throwing her head back as the orgasm finally consumes her, tingling, licking over the nerves oh so pleasantly, even if only for those few blissful seconds, those few blissful seconds she has been anticipating for such a long time.

While her body is still quivering, recovering from its state, still floating on the dreamy cloud called fulfilment, to the point where she barely hears his louder-than-usual groan, but not far enough to not notice him following right after. It takes a few, rather breathless seconds, before he pulls out, still tingling with aftershocks, and drops on the mattress beside her.

“Still on the pill?” He asks teasingly, glancing at her lying form, however his eyes mostly focus on the heaving breasts, not that it surprises her.

“Still clean?” She mocks, rolling on her side to face him. 

He only sighs in response, giving her a short, artificial laugh, before answering. “Very fucking funny, Peaches.”

* * *

So in the end, it turned out the necklace was not even there.

Kind of funny.

And ‘kind of’ is a keyword here.

“I think you deserve to know the truth.”

Does he?

He only hums in agreement, the wordless response not necessary soothing her nerves if not fueling the disquiet even further.

“My mother had problems,” she states, the chosen combination of words seemingly absurd in her own notion, but it reflects reality well enough to encourage her to continue. “So as I mentioned before, my mother had problems. Neither me or my dad knew what it was, but it was… it was just weird, I guess, or sinister in its own way. Hardly ever she had a nerve to leave the house and wander around the neighborhood, but when she did, she always drew the attention of all those nosy people.” 

“By doing what?” He asks, the sudden question that she prefers to slide aside, making her lose the context for a brief moment. Why has she even started the topic in the first place? Ah yes, because he deserves to know the truth.

(He doesn’t, Hazel. None of them does. The Giraffe knew and look what happened to her.)

“She was just… just acting weird, I don’t really need to get into details,” she refuses, shaking her head slightly.

“Fine, just tell me all you feel like telling me,” okay, now he is getting curious.

“Since I reached the age of six, maybe eight, I had no idea why my dad was with her the whole time, but maybe he… maybe he felt like he owed her something, maybe he even loved her. But I didn’t, I didn’t love her. Instead I was just afraid of her the whole time.”

“Afraid, why?” He interferes, maybe not in the best moment, but she seems to ignore the question as she goes on with her story.

“On daily bases, she didn’t pay attention to me, but I always felt like the sword of Damocles was hanging right above me, which sound pretty fucking stupid when you put it this way if I were honest,” she chuckles nervously, her voice breaking at the end.

“Maybe a tiny bit dramatic with the use of the idiom, but don’t go too hard on yourself,” he shrugs, encouraging her to continue.

“I think it would be accurate to say that she had her moments, moments when something snapped inside her, and all of sudden she wasn’t just sitting and staring. Don’t get me wrong, she never hurt me, like physically, but she had that moments of disconnection from the outside world, when she was… hallucinating, I guess.”

“You mean like she claimed she was seeing things, hearing things, experiencing all those unreal situations-” 

“Yes! And as a small kid I was terrified. Throughout those years, all I ever wanted for her was to disappear, and one day my dreams, my prayers, sort of came true. She… she… well, she,” Hazel clears her throat uneasily, trying to find the right words, “hung herself in the bedroom, but it didn’t entirely ease me…” while she is meaning to continue, he interrupts her once more. 

“Instead it made you feel guilty for what happened, but at the same time it… it set you free.”

“Yeah,” she nods hesitantly. “You’re right, it did.”

“Yeah, no wonder I’m right,” he smirks, the same smug smirk as always back on his lips. “Don’t you get the impression that I’m always right?”

“Always,” she agrees ironically, topping it with the well-mastered, discreet eye-roll.

As silence settles over them, she cannot help but wonder. What if the solution to get rid of the Giraffe is that simple that all it takes to solve it is to get back to its source?

To get back to the Giraffe.

And yet the question always remains there, the one that is supposed to hunt you until you cannot sleep, until you are restlessly tossing and turning in your bed, until you lose your mind. In her case the question is disturbingly simple - will Hazel be able to love herself when the Giraffe is gone?

“Leslie?”

“Huh?”

“I was wondering,” she starts, more confident this time. “Could you do me a favor?”

* * *

The lines of conifers by the road give her the odd impression of being trapped. All she has ever wanted is to be free, to express yourself freely and without worrying how someone may view your behavior – a vision that others may label as one of those ‘beyond utopic’. She has always sought harmony, peace, and patience – not necessary what Leslie provides for her, but he replaces it with something else, something she had hardly experienced before they met, if ever.

She is thinking safeness.

However, the images of her mother hunt her, even after her death, even after her dad’s second wedding, even after moving out, she still cannot get it out of her head. She doubts she will ever forget how she was swaying from side to side, dangling from that stupid rope, the giraffe neckless ever present around her neck as if it was supposed to act as some sort of a grotesque match for the cord.

How selfish does a woman have to be to hang herself in the house where her child lives, where she can walk right in time to be the first person who gets a chance to see her like this? Even after those six years it still hurts to know that she did it on purpose so that either her dad or Hazel would find her. 

She was one of a twisted bitch, this is for sure.

The lines of conifers by the road give him the odd impression of being trapped. All he has ever wanted is to be free, to express yourself freely and without worrying how society attempts to put an end to anything you are trying to create as if your lifestyle was even bothering anyone. He has always sought independence, deliverance, and vitality - not necessary what Hazel provides for him, but she replaces it with something else, something he had hardly experienced before they met, if ever.

He is thinking calmness.

However, he did not mention that Hazel’s decision to share the story about her past sort of amazed him, because he has never collected enough courage to repay her in kind. There is something about exposing this particular part of his image that leaves him unsettled.

Hazel knows him as a guy with slicked back hair, leather-jean jacket, and the barn red Coupe DeVille, a guy whose behavior is beyond reckless and who, amongst other things, enjoys fucking women in the backseat of the aforementioned car.

But it had not always been this way.

After their talk, he suspects that what drew him to her in the first place was the fact that both of them, deep down, are cut from the same cloth, marked by their parents behavior, the behavior that cannot be labelled as pathological, rather morbid – subtle but ever present difference that seems to define their whole lives. 

If it ever came to sharing a few words about his father… how to put this correctly and as clearly as possible? If it ever came to sharing a few words about his father, he would not define him as a loony or anyone of that sort but a wimp.

Yes, his father was a wimp and he hates him for that.

He always felt like it should not concern him this much, but it did anyway, it did concern him every single day that despite the fact he was his father, and so he was supposed to be role model for him, he never was. All he ever wanted as a teenager was to not become that tedious man his father was, or at least that tedious man he was in Leslie’s eyes. 

It was infuriating how he let other people do everything for him, how he let them lead his life – first his mother, then his wife. He still cannot get over the fact that his father’s wife, who also happened to be Leslie’s mother, was with him all the time, that every day she made him breakfast, lunch, then dinner as if he was some sort of a cripple – unable to do this on his own. 

It constantly seemed like he had no ambitions, no goals that were beyond going to work and coming home just to watch television and read some newspaper, and because of that they never had anything to talk about. Leslie’s idea of life is to live it to the fullest – to experience as much as he can and to simply do feels appropriate in his own judgment, not other’s. His father’s… well, it appeared as if he did not have one, as if he sort of floated in the sea that is our lives, and let the waves push him towards some random destination instead of trying to swim on his own, to put a little effort. 

So he left him, he left his house as soon as he was done with high school, and since then he has been living on his own, maybe not alone, but on his own. As the well-known saying goes – all starts are rocky, but after some opportunities dropped, everything has been just peachy.

Since then he has been just a guy with slicked back hair, leather-jean jacket, and the barn red Coupe DeVille.

While Leslie is drowning in his own memories, the road seems like it does not approve the concept of an inevitable end, each turn only reveals another asphalt ribbon halved with the classic yellow stripe. The lack of his usual talk leaves Hazel alone to deal with any insecurities that have already dropped and the ones that are yet to drop.

“Sometimes I feel like there’s some beauty in sadness,” her voice rings in the empty car, the Talking Heads song fades in the distance, words blurring into one fuzzy phrase – the ultimate essence of life.

“Why?” He asks, eyes never leaving the road.

“I feel like the melancholy is some sort of an incentive to ponder,” she continues, suddenly more preoccupied with the passing trees, eyes fixated on their dull forms. “Isn’t it?”

“Is it?” He dwells further – one of many ways to keep up with her train of thoughts and not to get lost in his own. “Maybe you’re right, maybe it is. Maybe we try to avoid it, but in the meantime we need it to maintain the balance. How would we experience felicity, if we didn’t know what dolor is?”

She does not give him a verbal response, instead she keeps staring at the conifers, although her wordless answer is already floating in the air, legible enough for him.

“Let me tell you a story,” he starts while the recent turn reveals more of the merciless road. “A few years back, I used to work as a used cars salesman. One day, I met a guy – middle thirties, blonde hair, lovely girlfriend.”

“Lovely?” She asks suspiciously, glancing at his profile.

“Jealous much?” He laughs at her annoyed huff. “You know, she had that red curly hair, and I’d never seen anything like this. I mean red hair are rare in general, but this particular combination… like a white raven. Anyway, after he claimed he was perfectly capable of searching the offers by himself, we talked for a bit. I think her name was Brittany or Bethany, maybe Beverly, it doesn’t matter, since I’m getting a little off the subject here.”

“Yeah, a little,” she rolls her eyes, although still eager for him to continue.

“Anyway, a couple of days later, he came back once more, this time alone, and after finally purchasing the car, he asked me a question that truly made me wonder. ‘Why do we crave for things we can’t have and why can’t we thoughtfully enjoy them when they finally come?’ ”

She does not answer this time. Instead she bestows him with yet another question that is meant to hunt him during all those forthcoming sleepless nights.

“Why, Leslie?”

* * *

The neighborhood looks familiar. The road is still cracked in the same few places, the painted lines still faded, the crows still chanting their never ending song – the omen of death. She used to hate the crows, but as the time passed, the hectoliters of water flowed thought the river, and her graduation came, she understood that they were, and always will be right, that the crows were, and always will be continuing their chant – the ultimate essence of life.

The house looks older, abandoned. A few years have passed since her last visit, since anyone’s visit to be clear, and it feels kind of weird to be back –

(that bizarre notion that keeps coming back and forth. The Giraffe knows it, so she steps aside, avoiding the tall man’s offering.)

The growing ivy gives the concrete walls this particular deserted-house-from-horror vibe, the vibe not necessary helpful, considering they are about to get in through the garden wicket.

Or rather she is.

Because this is one of those roads she has to walk alone.

Her whole body cringes when the hinges cry, maybe for mercy, a single, awful creak that cuts through the air, seemingly waking up the old house, alerting her mother that she is here. If she was being honest with herself, she would admit that she wants her to know, she wants her to anxiously anticipate her return like she did as a child. But she will not avow, since it does not cooperate with her concept of being a good person.

(“What does?” The Giraffe inquires, her meddlesome habits sometimes become a stimulus for another massive headache.)

The lawn is uneven, untrimmed, since the grass has been growing freely for quite a while now, covering almost the entire ground except for a few bald patches of soil that stand out like a bunch of children in a world created by adults. Sometimes she wishes that she could join the former ones, that she could escape from all the responsibilities that come in a package called adulthood.

Hesitantly, she approaches the swing, the yellow paint peeling off its surface as if it was also attempting an escape from the dark place. She crouches down by the bracket, where ground remains grassless, and brushes the dirt with her fingertips, savoring the moment as if it was her last time touching its structure.  
When she is done with dragging the inevitable, she fishes for a shovel, only to bury it in the soil a split second after. It does not take long to dug out the whole thing, since she buried the box just a few inches deep. 

Despite a rather short amount of time that the case spent underground, some of the dirt has already dug into the wood’s gouges, marking it black. She does not seem to mind, in fact this is the last thing that is bothering her at the moment, as she opens it with a single flick of her wrist.

And there it is – the giraffe necklace, grazing at her from its resting spot, mocking her, judging her as the cause of her mother’s death. She picks it up, moving it around her fingertips for a little while, waiting for the woman to finally notice her.

“Were you bored with him? With yourself?” She asks, her voice still as infantile as it used to be while she was alive.

“Only boring people get bored with themselves,” she huffs, surprisingly bitterly, even in her own notion. 

“So you’re saying I’m a boring person?” she asks again, the stupidity of her question makes Hazel’s blood boil hot.

“So this is all you have to say? Already out of ideas?” She mocks her, knowing she will regret it later, but keeping the unpleasant attire anyway.

“You were always the smart one, finding such a lovely boyfriend.”

What?

No words can express the level of exasperation caused by her statement. What is wrong with her, like who says something like this? How come finding a boyfriend defines your smartness?

“What does it have to do with anything?” She spits, already regretting even coming here in the first place. She has already forgotten how immature her mother used to be, how little it took her to get under Hazel’s skin.

“But also the weak one, just like me,” she sighs heavily. “Tell me, does he look after you? Keeps you safe?”

“I don’t need him to keep myself safe,” Hazel rolls her eyes theatrically. “And I’m not even close to becoming a person that you once used to be.”

“You’re that person already,” she smiles pitifully. “And you’ve always been.”

Her statement causes something odd to blossom inside Hazel’s mind, something that she never thought would find its place there, something that she never thought would decide to settle and build its home underneath her skull. But it manages to accomplish the aforementioned task anyway as soon as the young woman admits that for once this dull, childish woman is right, instead of giving in to the habit of denying whatever she says.

“If you say so,” she shrugs, smiling softly, as she laces the necklace around her neck. “Either way, I’m taking the Giraffe. And I don’t care how you feel about it.”

“You never did,” she sighs, ready to walk away at any given moment.

“That is right,” Hazel smirks, the same smirk that Leslie flashed her not so long ago. Her mother is right indeed, she needs Leslie, she always did, even before they met, she has always been the weak one.

But is it really a drawback?

Or is it just another inherent part of the paradox that is our lives?

“Is it, mother?” She speaks for the last time, before she turns around and walks away, skipping the last few steps just like she used to as a child.

And has it ever felt better, to skip the last few steps?

* * *

Why do we crave for things we can’t have and why can’t we thoughtfully enjoy them when they finally come – the question that really seems impossible to get out of his mind. 

“It’s about the whole forbidden fruit concept, isn’t it?” He finally speaks, since spelling things out always helps him to sort them. “Anything beyond our reach is what we find more attractive than anything within it. But when it becomes affordable, it also stops being the forbidden fruit that it once used to be.”

She only hums in response, staring at the passing conifers as if lost in some sort of a trance. It still hurts deep down, but it is the good kind of ‘hurt’, it is that kind of hurt that makes us feel alive – the pain that keeps us anchored to the reality’s shore.

“Sure everything’s fine?” He asks, truly hoping that the whole situation will not be the cause of yet another heavy mood swing.

“It has never been finer, ” she replies calmly, the softness of her voice surprisingly soothing, even for him. “Now has it?”

**Author's Note:**

> Created: 12/24/19  
> Completed: 03/11/20  
> Edited: 03/14/20


End file.
